


Statement of Keane Regan.

by paraexorcist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24334312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraexorcist/pseuds/paraexorcist
Summary: Content Warnings: Child abuse, parental death, depression, suicidal ideation, house fire
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Statement of Keane Regan.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: Child abuse, parental death, depression, suicidal ideation, house fire

Statement of Keane Regan, regarding the event of his house burning down when he was a child. Statement begins.

Um, where should I start… Okay. I should start with my childhood, probably? I’ll do that.

I was born on September 20, 1999. I grew up with my mother and father, but my father left us when I was 15 years old. Well. I… I suppose ‘left’ isn’t the most accurate description. It was more like he was dragged out of the house after my mother called the police after he… After she caught him giving me a black eye, along with other cuts and bruises. Something I had never paid much attention to at the time was the curiosity of the fact that every time he hit me, it left a sort of burning sensation on my skin.

I don’t say that to incite pity for me. It is important context, I think.

After that, my mother quickly grew distant. I imagine she felt guilty for not realizing what had been going on for years already — or perhaps she did, she just didn’t want to accept it. I don’t blame her for any of it, of course. But she very clearly spiraled, and by the time I turned 16, it became extremely rare for her to get out of bed at all during the day. She had been fired for taking too many sick days, and the money we were getting to support us from the government wasn’t enough, so I worked at the petrol station down the street every day after school to earn us enough to survive. 

I tried very hard to help her get better, but nothing I did or said got through to her. After a while, she stopped talking, stopped trying to eat, so I had to feed her myself and make her drink water, all of that. I tried calling 999 once -- I was 17 at that point -- because I was worried she might be thinking of suicide, but as soon as she saw me dialing the numbers she had a very loud… scary breakdown, begging me not to make her go to the hospital. At that time, she had promised to be a mother again, do all sorts of mother things, get out of bed and make me breakfast and get a job. 

“I love you so much, Keane, I’ll get better for you.”

Foolishly, I believed her.

The next day, I went to school and to my shift afterwards, as usual. I clocked in, and as I grabbed a coffee before I was to get to my register, I noticed a large amount of smoke billowing up from down the street. Somehow, as soon as I saw it, I knew. My heart dropped, and I felt like I was running on autopilot as I ignored my manager’s protests while I ran out the door and towards my house.

Fire trucks whizzed past me as I ran, and when my house came into view, consumed in roaring flames, I stumbled to a stop. Three firefighters came running out, the last one out carrying a body over his left shoulder, and the paramedics took it and placed it on a stretcher that was being rolled into the ambulance within seconds.

I think I was asked if I was her child, and I think I nodded, because I found myself sitting in the ambulance next to my mother’s smoldering body and being reassured by a paramedic.

Soon enough, my mother was in an operating room, and I was blankly staring at the hospital tile floors in the waiting room.

They managed to save her. I think she hated them for it.

I stayed with her in her room for a week. The nurses were very kind and let me stay overnight as well as allowing me to use the shower and giving me spare clothing. My mother was in a coma for the first four days. When she woke up, she said nothing; the only indication that she wasn’t brain dead were the tears streaming down her face.

She didn’t say a word to me until I told her I had to go back to school and work, and I’d be back to see her in the evening. I got up to leave, and she grabbed my hand with such force I yelped.

“He did this,” she whispered urgently, eyes crazed and voice incredibly hoarse. “He did this, and he won’t stop until we’re both dead.”

As soon as she said this, it seemed as if her throat closed up. She was struggling to breathe, and her eyes were turning bloodshot. I yelled for a doctor as loud as I could. When they came running in, I think they were too preoccupied with trying to save my mother that they didn’t make me leave, as they probably should have.

So, that’s how I ended up watching as my mother suffocated on smoke that wasn’t there.

They investigated the cause of the fire after I repeated her last words to me, but nothing came of it. Everything they could find pointed to evidence that my mother had started the fire herself, and her recent behavior didn’t really convince them it could have been anything else.

I was 17 at the time of her death, so I was forced into the foster care system. I stayed with a family that clearly didn’t want me, which I don’t hold against them. When I turned 18, I packed up my things and left them without any issue. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking at this point, but I decided I needed to get out of my small Irish hometown, so I scraped together all my savings along with my mother’s life insurance money, and got on a train to London.

When I got there, I stayed in a hostel for a few weeks before I found a job at a grocery store and a flat. Sure, the flat was cheap and rundown and seated comfortably in the middle of a very sketchy street, but I felt relieved to be away from home.

At that point, I became very depressed. I had already been depressed, of course, ever since my mother’s death, but I think being alone in such a huge city began to get to me. If I’m being completely honest, the years in between moving to London and starting at the Institute are a blur to me now.

I barely even remember how I got the idea to apply to the Institute. I think I came across a flyer that had been slipped under my front door, with the corners seemingly singed off a bit. I still don’t know why I got hired, as I have absolutely no experience with research or any education past a mediocre secondary school degree, but I was glad to leave the dreary grocery store job.

Since starting here, I haven’t had any issues. I like to think my mother was just out of it at the end, and that her last words meant nothing in truth. But upon working here for a while, I find that harder and harder to believe.

Statement ends.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!!! i assume if you read this, you already know of my rp account of my boy keane, but if not you can find that on twitter @keaneregane!


End file.
